


Love Makes Liars of Us All

by cheerynoir, Iron_Dragon_Maiden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AKA you can't get over a parent's death in like two scenes guys, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Companionable Snark, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Support, F/F, F/M, Fake Marriage, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Fumbling, Grief/Mourning, Hysteria, Idiots in denial, Kissing, Lies, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Politics, Power Imbalance, Probable PTSD, Rough Kissing, Theon "there is no kill like overkill" Greyjoy, Underage Sex (mentioned), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, War, always-a-girl!Theon, bisexual!Theon, dom!robb, god so much cuddling and banter, hand holding, might be out of character??, off-screen violence, sub!theon, sweet summer children - they try so fucking hard, there can't be a Red Wedding if Robb can't marry a Frey to begin with!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5535983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerynoir/pseuds/cheerynoir, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron_Dragon_Maiden/pseuds/Iron_Dragon_Maiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb couldn't marry a Frey if they were to secure a better match once they returned North - that much was clear.</p><p>“What are you suggesting, Greyjoy?” Lady Catelyn asked, her eyes narrowed.</p><p>“Why, only the tale you spun, good-mother,” said Theon with a smile. "To appease the Late Lord Frey, if nothing else."</p><p> “Theon, you can’t be serious,” said Robb.</p><p>It was simple enough: stick to the story. Pretend to be married. Win the war.</p><p>The rest they could deal with once Ned Stark had been freed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Robb's POV

He wasn’t ready for this. 

Even if his mother was right next to him as an advisor and his Lord father still alive to hopefully take back the mantle once they’ve freed him, Robb had no illusions about his own abilities as a leader. He was a man grown at six-and ten, true, but all he’d ever learned about war and battles and campaigns had been within the safety of Winterfell’s walls. 

It was one thing to learn about tactics and war in books; it was another thing entirely to lead men and sweat under the weight of his new armour.

He wasn’t ready but he was a man grown. He had to see this through and save his father. 

_That’s what a good Lord does, he sees things through._

A good Lord, a just Lord – his Lord Father – would know how to fix things. He would know what to say to Bran to get his spirits up. He would not need his mother to go in his place to negotiate with a Bannerman technically still loyal to him. Father would know how to calm Rickon no matter what. He would not feel so lost on what to do or who to trust, Robb was sure of that. He would not have his own younger brother doubt who was privy to his trust. 

Father would know what to do, what to say, which messenger to send with what message to appease all of his Bannermen and earn their confidence. He would know how to make rival Bannermen cease their petty grievances and join together under a common cause.

He wasn't that Lord, not yet. He didn’t know if he would ever be as great as his father, but Robb had to try.

As it was, he couldn't even guarantee that the Freys, Bannermen through his mother’s side, would allow them to pass through the Green Fork and lend their own soldiers to the cause. What sort of Lord did that make him?

"You know," Theon said with that derisive smirk of hers, breaking the silence neatly. "The Late Lord Frey might serve as a better scout than a Lord. We can tell which way the wind is blowing by how he leans. He's wearing red, the Lannisters are winning and we need to be more brutal. He's wearing grey and blue, we are winning and need to vigilant to keep it so."

Robb, in spite of himself, let out a snort. Then he covered it with a cough and a sharp glance. He couldn't indulge in such japes anymore, even if Theon, bless her, was merely doing it for his benefit.

He couldn’t help but glance at her, though. One hand fell from where he’d been distractedly tugging at his hair.

Theon was leaning like a lazy cat, her legs splayed out in a way that effortlessly attracted attention as she drank from a bottle of Dornish wine.

He knew that he was foolish to bring Theon, his father's hostage, to war. It went against the laws of the land to make a virtual prisoner of war fight for their captors. But more importantly, it was sheer folly to being a hostage in a battlefield where they would never defend the backs of the captor's soldiers and cause death and loss through inaction. 

Robb knew this. He knew that Theon had a long memory and a sharp tongue and enough spite to return a slight twofold. But he needed Theon. He needed her cynicism and her gallows humor and even her recklessness. Theon came of her own will, under no orders, simply due to her loyalty to Robb alone. That was more than could be said of many of these distinguished lords, Frey in particular.

A flash from the sunlight cut through the gap in his tent caught in the brooch that attached her heavily furred cape to her armor. It was a crocus cast in steel. The flower was one that Robb was intimately familiar with, it was a flower that he had gifted her as a lad and that she had kept until it started wilting and then took to Mikken to immortalize it in metals and a pin. This little tradition continued until many of Theon’s prized jewels were all once part of a crocus flower. Even the childish little girl’s pendant that was nothing but melted metal over wilted petals held together in a leather string was guarded in the same box she kept her old childhood tokens from Pyke. 

He flushed when he remembered this discovery. He’d been nine and entered her room the morning after a shameless bard had wooed her during Sansa’s nameday, intending to… Honestly, he had no idea what he’d intended to do, green boy that he was. All he knew was that, in his anger at not finding her and at the confirmation that the bard had successfully wooed her, he’d accidentally knocked over a prized jewelry box from its perch and with it its contents. 

All jealousy and rage evaporated as though it never existed. She kept them. Every single crocus he’d ever given her. She’s kept them all immortalized in metal and near her childhood starter bow and her mother’s iron and idocrase necklace. 

It had been such an overindulged little brother thing to do, Robb thought ruefully. To get so angry over Theon willingly spending time with someone other than him. That odd fear that he’d been replaced and that Theon would spend time with someone older and less green and childish. How stupid and immature. 

No matter how many honey-tongued bards or handsome enough stable boys were temporarily welcomed to her bed, she would always keep him close to her heart. That was true loyalty, the sort no one could bribe or coerce. 

He needed that. He needed her.

He needed that loyalty, needed to know he was capable of inspiring it in others.

That was why, no matter how tense, how scared, how much he was wearing a hole on the floor with his pacing, she was always welcome to see him. She knew him and would never tell.

She was loyal, despite her Greyjoy blood, and didn’t look at him differently in the face of her uncertainty. No matter how much he chided her japes and seemingly devil-may-care smirk, he would always welcome them.

But she did not soothe him, could not offer the answers he sought.

So Robb worked his jaw and rolled his tense shoulders and went back to pacing. The silence fell about them like a shroud, and he could not think of anything to lift it.


	2. Chapter One - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought you all could use a chapter to ring in the New Year - enjoy, everybody! We'll be back to our regular posting schedule - every Friday - in the new year. Thanks again to I.D.M - and come say hi on Tumblr!
> 
> _Wine is drunk, Lordlings are soothed, and terms are discussed._
> 
> _Theon may be the only sane one in this entire army._

It was all well and good, really, until they made it to the Twins.

Theon watched with an insolent smile and a glass full of sweet Dornish wine as Robb paced the length of his tent. They were alone for the moment, his bannermen gone and his mother otherwise occupied treating with Walder Frey – which was how she liked it best. His hair cork-screwed in a hundred different directions from all the times he’d run his hands through it, and while his mouth was a thin white line, there was colour high in his cheeks. There was something nearly charming about it – that restrained disquiet, that restlessness.

“What if he says no?” he asked for the hundredth time. He did not look at her, but it didn’t bother her. There was a certain worry in his eyes that she did not like.

“He won’t,” said Theon, for the hundred-and-first. “He isn’t so stupid, and your mother could wear down the Wall with that look of hers – you know the one. The late Lord Frey doesn’t stand a chance.”

That got a smile, small and tight and fleeting, but a smile all the same. Theon leaned back in her chair – his, really – and took a sip of wine – also his – and eyed him critically over the rim of her glass. Robb went back to pacing, his fingers knotted together behind his back to keep them out of his hair. Trying to break a years’ long habit, and one of the most noticeable tells Theon had ever personally encountered. It would almost be admirable, if it wasn’t so entertaining to watch him struggle.

“Have a drink,” she said at last, and offered the cup. “And sit down, before you pace a trench for us to bed down in, would you? Looking at you is making me twitchy.”

“You could do with some twitchiness,” Robb replied. “You never take anything seriously.”

“Why would I, when you take things seriously enough for two?” asked Theon.

But she relaxed minutely when Robb came closer. She rolled her wrist a little, wine sloshing, tempting with a smile that only widened when Robb reached out. He took the glass and drank – only to pull a face after he swallowed. All the years seemed to slough from him when he was pulling disgusted faces like a child and Theon smirked to see it.

_And they trust you to lead them,_ she thought, and laughed, very softly. _A boy so green he can’t stomach summer sweet-wine. Gods help us._

“It’s so sweet,” he said, and pushed the glass back into her hand with little regard to their brushing fingers. He stood over her, not looming, but close. If he shifted, their knees would bump. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Life’s better with a little sweetness, my lord,” she said, batting her eyelashes, and laughed again at the disgruntled look he threw her. But he didn’t stop looking at her, and he didn’t go back to pacing, so Theon counted it as a win regardless.

“M’lord!”

Robb flinched and took two quick steps back, his hands jumping to smooth through his hair. For a moment, the squire that had burst through the tent flap merely stared at them both. It was a tough call, trying to figure which of them looked more startled. Theon hid a smirk behind her hand.

Robb cleared his throat and motioned slightly, turning to face the boy. “What is it?” he asked.

“The lady Catelyn is back, m’lord. She’s on the way – with Freys in attendance!”

Well that answered one question at least. Theon shot Robb a look, all arched eyebrows and smugness, and made no attempt to straighten from her lounging sprawl.

_See? I told you as much._

Robb rolled his eyes, but his lips kept twitching and the back of his neck was flushed red. “Thank you,” he said instead to the boy. “Gather the bannermen if they’re not already coming this way, would you?”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the boy, and was quick to scurry away.

She waited until the tent-flap had settled before she turned to Robb once again. “I told you so,” she said. “All that worry for nothing. Do you feel foolish yet?”

“Shut up, Theon,” Robb grumbled, and that was the last they said of it.

When Lady Catelyn swept in, the tent was already crowded with bannermen and Theon lingered near the fringes.

“I would have a moment alone, if you would,” said Lady Catelyn, her eyes on her eldest. “To discuss the terms of our crossing.”

“Of course,” said Robb. As the rest filed out, Theon kept to her feet. “Theon—”

“She can stay,” said Lady Catelyn, and for a moment, she merely sounded exhausted. “This concerns her, in part.”

_What?_

“What?” asked Robb, startled. Theon drew closer, her fingers tapping restlessly at her thighs.

Lady Catelyn sighed and settled into a vacated chair. She pushed back her hair and fixed a steady, careful gaze on her son. Theon may as well have not have been for all the attention they paid her.

“Lord Walder has given his terms. We may cross, but we’ll need to spare a handful of swords for an escort back to Winterfell. Two of Lord Frey’s grandsons, both named Walder, are to foster there. Bran should like the company of boys around his own age, I think.”

“That isn’t so bad,” said Robb quickly. “Two fosterlings? It’s a small price to pay. We can spare-”

“There’s more. All but 400 of his men are yours, but in return, Olyvar, Lord Walder’s son, will join us as your personal squire. His father expects a knighting, in good time.”

“That means nothing to me, if—”

“Also, if Arya is returned to us safely, she is to be wed to Lord Walder’s youngest grandson, Elmar, when the time comes and they both are of age.”

Theon quirked an eyebrow, privately amused, but Robb shook his head a little. “She won’t like that one bit,” he said.

And here Lady Catelyn paused. For a heartbeat, Theon thought she looked uncertain, but then she took a breath and pressed on. 

“There is one more thing,” she said. “It was a sticking point, I confess. Lord Frey wanted to marry you to one of his daughters. He was fair about it – once the fighting was done, you would have had your choice. But… I convinced him to be content with Bran, in your stead.”

Robb blinked, clearly startled. “Why?”

“Because should we win this war, you’ll need a better alliance than to the Freys; you’ll need to solidify your hold on the North with a Northern match,” said Lady Catelyn. She stood and went to her son, rested her weary hands on his shoulders. Theon glanced towards the door, and seriously considered fleeing while they were distracted. She’d catch hell for it later, but it was better than sitting in on this. 

But Lady Catelyn was still speaking. “However, I knew Lord Walder would not approve– so I convinced him that you were already married.”

Theon was rather glad she hadn’t been drinking anything at the time, because she was pretty sure she would have choked. She looked to Robb and saw the same surprise on his face.

“Mother?” he asked.

Lady Catelyn sighed, but there was a tired incredulity in her tone when she elaborated. “I told him you had married Theon in secret, before the heart tree with a stable-boy for witness before coming south.”

“What,” said Theon. “That’s insane. He believed that?”

“I was very convincing, as only a disapproving mother could be,” said Lady Catelyn drily. She spared Theon only a glance before her attention returned to Robb. She went on urgently, “I meant only to save you. Though I fear it does not reflect well on you – the last thing you need is to be seen as an impulsive boy by your men.”

“And yet that’s what you’ve cast me as,” said Robb, and anger sparked in his eyes. “What would you have me do?”

“Nothing,” said Lady Catelyn. “If he can be kept in the dark—” 

“There are spies everywhere, my lady,” said Theon. She shrugged one shoulder when both Starks turned to glower at her. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s true. How will Lord Late-to-Battle take it if he finds out from some little bird that you lied to him to escape a marriage pact? Not well, I’d wager. Worse if it’s the squire he sent telling him.”

“…And if he’s uncertain about one clause of our treaty,” said Robb slowly.

“Then it might be cause for him to throw in with the Lannisters,” Theon finished with a nod. “Which we hardly need, regardless of what you have planned for Tywin.”

“What are you suggesting, Greyjoy?” Lady Catelyn asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Why, only the tale you spun, good-mother,” said Theon with a smile.

“Theon, you can’t be serious,” said Robb.

She only shrugged again. “Why not? It would keep Lord Frey from stabbing you in the back down the line, and it would keep you from having to make another marriage pact until you’re back in Winterfell. Once this is done we could dissolve our ‘marriage’, or you could set me aside, and you could have a bride of your choosing. There’d be no harm done, really.”

“What about you? No man would have you, after that.”

“I’m not exactly the marrying type,” said Theon. “It doesn’t bother me any.”

“And if the men talk?” said Lady Catelyn.

“Men always talk,” said Theon. “Let them.” She flicked a pointed glance to Robb. “You called them together, did you not? They are your men, and they swore their loyalty to you. So command them well, and soon no one will care what mistakes you made before the war.”

“That… seems sound,” ventured Robb after a moment. “If I give them no reason to doubt me, regardless of whatever past actions they think I’ve committed…”

“It will not be as easy as that,” said Lady Catelyn. She looked between them sharply. “Any cause for doubt might sway your men or tip Lord Walder’s hand.”

“So we don’t give him one,” said Robb. 

_A bold claim from a boy who’d never kissed a girl._

“What do you say?” he asked, and she blinked at him in surprise.

“Pardon?”

“Well,” said Robb. His eyes glittered. “I won’t force you, but you are one of the best mummers I’ve ever met.”

“A good liar, little more,” Theon corrected. She sighed. “Fine. It can’t be any more difficult than it was to play a damsel for your and Jon’s games.”

“I should hope you put more effort in than you did then,” said Robb, with a short laugh. “You always ended up chasing us off with sticks.”

“Can you blame me,” asked Theon, scoffing. “Who wants to be rescued by a pair of giggling boys?”

Lady Catelyn put her head in her hands for a moment. When she drew herself up, her expression was clear of anything, though disapproval still lurked in her clear blue eyes.

“So you’ve decided?” she asked, and it was as though Theon did not exist any longer. Robb only nodded, though, his shoulders set.

“Yes. We’ll keep up the farce – we’ll tell the men, if the Freys have not already spread the news, and make it official – until we don’t need to anymore.”

She nodded slightly then, her lips a thin white line. “And we’ll reveal the truth when the time is right. It’s settled.”

“Good. And now we have a bridge to cross,” and it was as light as Theon had seen Robb in days, perhaps. Between this and the plot for the Lannisters, she expected it was having a plan that settled him.

“And possessions to move,” remained Catelyn. She looked as though she’d just sucked a lemon, and regardless of anything, Theon took some satisfaction in that.

“Wait, what?”

“How many married couples do you know that would not share a tent, Robb?” asked Lady Catelyn archly.

And suddenly the situation was not quite so funny. Theon fidgeted with the tail of her braid and studied the toes of her boots. It was one thing to spread a story around – it was another to live it.

“Of course,” said Robb. “That – yes, of course. Sharing … yes.”

But live it they would.

_This is going to be … interesting._


	3. Chapter Two - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bannermen have a right to know Lord Frey's toll.
> 
> (or: Robb can't lie for shit. Theon improvises.)

“You look like you’re going to throw up,” said Theon mildly, later in the evening, awaiting a crowd of bannermen. All save Roose Bolton, who led a host to meet Tywin on the Green Fork with the infantry. Theon felt the relief in her guts – as often as she tweaked the Leech Lord, the man made her decidedly uneasy. It was his eyes, she decided once. Pale and queer and colder than winter. They’d unsettled anyone, she was sure.

_Who knows,_ she thought, fingers twitching. _Maybe he’ll take a wound and die._

That’s an unkind thought. Theon was not a kind person – not soft, not proper, not gentle – but most of all, she was not kind. She was a Greyjoy, she was hard and she was cruel. Hard places bred hard people, after all. So why did her thoughts unsettle her?

She gave her head a shake, bit the inside of her cheek. She forced her attention elsewhere. Her dress, her hair. She’d picked a proper dress, shed her armour and her breeches for a deep blue dress, loosened her hair from its usual braided bun to hang in a single rope down her back. It was a Northern style, simple and practical. The dress was modest, unadorned – with nothing to remind them of her heritage. Not a stitch of gold, not a kraken in sight.

She had thought to add a gem or skirt-jewel or fine hair-net to feel more like herself, rather than a dowdily-dressed imposter, but it had been a vain thought, and fleeting. She settled for a leaf-shaped bronze and emerald pin to clasp her cloak, bought off some peddler from the Rock before she left the North. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.  
And yet her fingers toyed with her hair, her sleeves, the heavy skirt. She wished she hadn’t removed her rings suddenly – the metal weighed down her restless hands.

“I might,” said Robb. He looked a little green, his eyes vaguely nervous. He drank the water she offered, and steeled himself when there was a shout from outside the tent. “I am about to lie to my men – that’s generally frowned upon, you know,” he said, and he was trying for lightness, at least.

“Look,” she said, quiet, and drew closer. She put her hands on his shoulders, met his eyes squarely. “Leave the japing to me, would you? You’re bad at it.” She smirked a little, slow. “Think of it like this, if it helps: when Sansa was convinced that the rats under Winterfell were going to swarm her bedroom and devour her alive, what did you do?”

“I told her it’d never happen.”

“Even though rats have been known to gnaw on living flesh?”

“Theon, what are you getting at? She was seven at the time, of course I – how do you even remember that?”

“It doesn’t matter. You lied, is the long and the short of it. Sometimes lies are necessary, Robb, that’s all. Just keep that in mind, will you?”

She didn’t know what he found in her face, searching it as intently as he did, but it seemed to be enough. Some of the tension in his shoulders bled away under her palms, and his smile came easier. He lifted his hands and wrapped his fingers around her forearms. She wondered when his hands had gotten so big, so calloused. He was very warm.

“As you say, Lady Stark,” he said at last. He didn’t like it, the lies, she could see that clear enough, but he’d duck his head and square his shoulders and do it.

_Good._

“Just so,” she replied, and ignored the swooping in her stomach.

There was a distant sound – the Greatjon, bellowing a laugh – that only grew louder and closer. Theon stepped back, her heart pounding in her throat, sudden and caught. Her arms fell to her sides. Her palms burned from his heat, her fingers twitched.

She wet her lips. Her heart drummed in her temples, and it was a fight to keep her breathing slow and deep.

It was foolish, she knew. They had only been talking. But –

But.

“You know,” said Robb. She caught his sidelong glance, the barest bloom of amusement in the corner of his mouth. “You look a proper lady, dressed like that. It suits you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. Theon turned away in a rustle of skirts, heat crawling up her throat. It was a small miracle she didn’t end up tripping over the hem of her dress; she had grown used to breeches of late.

She heard him laughing, but quietly. Quiet enough that she could ignore it, and the curl of pleasure at having been the cause. So she ignored it.

It was a pleasure quick to die, in any case. She felt it snuff out as soon as the tent flap was thrown back and the Greatjon strode in, flanked by all save Roose. She picked Patrek Mallister – fair-haired and laughing – and Dacey Mormont, poised and stony and in her mother’s shadow even now, from the crowd. Even Lady Catelyn was there, stern-faced and quiet.

_Seven save us,_ Theon thought, and took her seat.

It was straight-forward enough: Robb spoke quickly, clearly, biting out the words. He laid out their plans – to make for Riverrun, to break the siege before it could form, to take Jaime Lannister while he was unaware – but it was after that he faltered.

“I think you deserve to know Lord Walder’s toll,” he said at last, very carefully.

Theon glanced at him – saw the nervousness lurking in his eyes and no-where else – but most of her attention was on the others. The Greatjon and his son both were narrow-eyed, suspicious, but the reigning emotion in the room was confusion, and a keen-eyed curiosity.

Mallister glanced to her, though, quirked an eyebrow in askance, and Theon bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. She glanced away quickly.

“It was fair,” Robb was saying. A preface. “A pair of fosterlings sent to Winterfell, a squire,” and here he tipped his head to the Frey standing quietly off to one side, “marriage contracts for my siblings. And…”

_Just do it, Stark,_ Theon thought, and barely kept from putting her head into her hands. _Quickly, now. It’ll only be worse for you if you drag it out._

He cleared his throat, braced his hands one the table. “There would have been one for me as well, however…”

_He’s not going to do it,_ Theon realized with dull horror when the moment stretched. Robb glanced at her, a quick thing, but it told her everything. 

_He can’t do it. He’ll send them to die for him, but he can’t lie._

_Don’t make me do this._

But she was already on her feet.

_They’ll hate me for this, for stealing their lordling, for breaking the news._ But she took her place by Robb’s side. _All of them – but they hate me already._

“It’s hard to accept a marriage pact when you’re already married,” she said to the room at large, and paired it with a grin that showed too many teeth.

_Let them._

She reached for Robb blindly, and felt their fingers tangle.

It was not a lie, she took in comfort in later, tucked it away to bring out when the guilt gnawed at Robb. Technically, she hadn’t lied – she’d stated fact, and let them believe what they would of her.

And they did believe, she saw it in the thinned lips and furrowed brows and narrowed black eyes. She felt it in the sudden chill, the pressing silence.

“We weren’t informed,” said the Greatjon at last, rumbling.

“That is the idea of a secret marriage, Lord Umber,” Theon drawled, before she could stop herself. 

“It wasn’t planned,” Robb cut in. He shot Theon a warning glance before he turned back to Umber. His grip was tight, almost painful. She squeezed back. “Or you would have been.”

He didn’t sound sorry – but why should he?

It was done. There would be no undoing it.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, then,” said Patrek, slowly. There was an uncertain smile in the corner of his mouth, and Theon could have kissed him – until she caught the downward flick of his glance. He wasn’t the only one, even as the tent filled with grudging murmurs of agreement.

Of course, she thought. What else would excuse a rushed, secret marriage better than getting with a whelp?

It was a perfect excuse, but her stomach turned over uneasily all the same.

Robb forced a smile and tipped his head in acknowledgement.

The moment passed, business pressed on.

Theon glanced about quickly, tense, and wondered if she should sit. Robb's palm was clammy against her own, and the weight of so many stares made her want to fidget. As she glanced from face to face, she caught a glimpse of Lady Stark, and the look she wore could have turned men to stone and boiled the Narrow Sea. Had she been younger, Theon might have quailed under such a stern look.

She turned her face away and bit the inside of her cheek instead.

It wasn’t much, but the disapproval on Catelyn Stark’s face was enough to keep Theon on her feet, at Robb’s side.


	4. Chapter Three - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing a tent isn't much like Theon expected. Come to think of it, neither is marriage.
> 
> (Or: the first night of cohabitation)

Technically, this shouldn’t be a problem. She and Robb had shared space before – Seven Hells, they’d been living in the same castle for a decade.

But there was something distinctly different about turning when she caught movement in the corner of her eye and seeing Robb coming or going or even just watching her with a furrow in his brow. 

“What?” she asked on the first night. Without thinking she continued to pull the comb through her hair, mindful, as always, of the snarls and tangles. It took ages, and her arms always ached by the end of it, but it was a chore that needed doing. Besides – her hair had a healthy shine to it, and it was pretty enough in the firelight. A singer wandering through Winterfell had once called it ebony silk, and she – thirteen and vain – had laughed so hard she nearly snorted watered wine out her nose.

She’d taken him to bed all the same, but only to keep him from spewing more tired poetry. He’d been a tall man, her singer, with a dark beard kept in the Southern style and pale eyes – mindful. Careful. Even gentle, in a gruff sort of way. Even now, she thought he was rather more taken with tumbling some high-born than he was with her. But it wasn’t terrible. She hadn’t bled, and for all the Septa’s grave warnings, it hadn’t hurt all that much. Perhaps that was because she’d had Ros before, and the other girl had eased the path.

“Nothing,” said Robb, and looked away. Theon came back to the present with a start, tugging hard at her hair in surprise. Robb slunk from his seat when Grey Wind came close, and scrubbed his hands through the wolf’s fur. “I just hadn’t realized your hair was quite so long, is all.”

“Oh,” said Theon. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Braided, it was long enough to sit on. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn it loose – she knew that she’d be up half the night brushing it out after. “Well. Yeah,” she said, at last. “That happens when you just let it grow.”

“Why don’t you cut it?” he asked after a few more minutes of stealing glances. “It’s not really practical, is it? Under a helm, I mean.”

“Because I like it,” Theon replied. She brushed her hair back behind her shoulder, just to feel the weight of it as it shifted. “How many high-born ladies have you seen with short hair? Besides – it’s thick and soft enough to keep me warm at night.”

“I thought you had men for that,” said Robb, and blushed hard. “I mean – I didn’t – men talk, is all, and-”

But Theon laughed. “Aye,” she said. “Them too. But – come here, would you? Feel how soft it is.”

She waited until he drew close, one knee on the mattress and balanced there. She waited until he passed his fingers through a fistful of her hair as timidly as could be and so green it nearly made her teeth ache. She relaxed under his hand as minutes slid past and his grip became more sure, until he caressed her tresses almost absentmindedly and settled more comfortably beside her. She watched from the corner of her eye as he curled strands of her hair around his fingers, the tugging at her scalp almost pleasant. She tipped her head back with a hum and watched him through hooded eyes for a moment. He was comfortable, relaxed, absently watching as the firelight gleamed off her hair. The flickering cast odd shadows across his face, jagged things that made his eyes bright and his bones press against his skin. His gaze caught her's languidly, and he licked his lips. His gaze dropped slowly and Theon's breath hitched in her chest. She glanced away, smiling, before she went on, "Wouldn't you want something like that against your skin if you could?"

It was probably unkind, how much pleasure she took in making him blush.

It was a good thing Theon was not known for her kindness.

“I, well,” said Robb. Just like that, his confidence was gone and he was left red-faced and awkward. Theon shook her head to dislodge his fingers -- gripping a hank of her hair too tight -- and laughed. Robb scrambled away until he stood by the bedside.

“Don’t look so hunted, Robb. I keep it long for the same reason I dress so well when it suits me – because I like the look of it. That’s all.”

“That’s good,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck and did not meet her eyes. “That you like it. It suits you.”

“It seems you think many things suit me, husband,” she replied, laughing, just to rile him. His eyes darkened, his lips thinned.

“Are you calling me a liar, wife?”

“Only biased, love,” she said, so sweetly that he grimaced. 

“Don’t,” he said. He rubbed his hands over his face once, briskly. He went on, suddenly exhausted, his shoulders slumped. “Theon – just don’t, would you? You don’t need to … call me that. When there’s no one around. You don’t need to keep up the act.”

Her smile fell.

“Of course,” she said after a moment. Theon blinked and flicked her gaze back to her hair. She passed the comb through it again, slowly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It was a lie, but a white one. Small. Harmless.

“You didn’t,” he said quickly. “It’s only that—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” said Robb. And it was as though he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her. He crossed the room to fuss with papers left on his desk. “It’s just that we shouldn’t get too comfortable. Since this is only temporary.”

“Of course,” said Theon again. It felt like she’d swallowed a stone, and it sat heavy in her gut. “You’re right, of course.”

The words tasted like ash, but she said them all the same. 

He relaxed, then, the tension gone from his shoulders and spine, and she wondered why seeing it hurt, in the distant way old wounds always hurt. _Am I so repulsive?_

“Yes. I’m glad we’re agreed,” he said quickly. 

“Right,” said Theon. She finished with her comb quickly and bound her hair back into a loose braid. She jerked her chin toward the bed – large enough, really, for two. “Would you mind if I—?”

“Oh, no. By all means,” said Robb. He floundered with one hand, the other passing sharply through his hair. He hovered near his desk, a mess of maps and plots and nerves. “Will the light bother you?”

“I’ve slept through Sansa’s snoring on especially cold nights,” said Theon. She turned away, careful to keep her back straight and her shoulders loose – untroubled. “I’ve had worse. Take your time.”

Grey Wind flopped down beside her almost before she settled, her back to the room. Theon smiled faintly and dragged the furs up, despite the mild night.

“Hey,” she said, very softly. Grey Wind panted and wriggled, and she buried her hands in the thick, soft fur.

She fell asleep like that and woke in quite the same manner.

Alone.

“You’d think,” she said to Grey Wind as the morning light clawed at her eyelids and the tent continued to be still and silent. “That married life would be different.”


	5. Chapter Four - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They ride for Riverrrun.
> 
> Sweet summer children lead a war - and the battle of Whispering Wood kills them.
> 
> But isn't that the way of things?

Other than their living arrangements, not much changed. Theon still ate with Robb, she trained with him, she fought with him. Really, the only change to her daily routine was where she bedded down at night – and her sudden cut-back in hours spent with the camp followers.

It was stress relief that drove her into their perfumed arms, more or less. She liked being able to pay for an hour and spend it with a pretty woman who liked being pretty, who knew nothing of combat. She liked having conversations that did not stretch to cover war, bloodshed or old nobility. She liked the soft roundness of them, the hair on their legs and the thickness of their eyebrows and the swell of their hips and the heavy warmth of their breasts in her hands.

Northern women were built to withstand the cold. Theon needed three furs on her bed in summer time to keep from shivering. Ros used to think it was funny, how Theon would drape herself across her to leech as much heat as possible form her bedmate. But how could she not, Theon would reply, when Ros was warm and willing and gifted with such lovely red hair?

None of the women she visited these days were Ros, she’d gone South too early for it to be true. Sometimes, Theon missed her like a phantom limb.

But sometimes it was nice just to have someone braid her hair and share her wine with. Sometimes the gossip they traded was more useful than any report from the men on the state of things. Sometimes it was nice to revel in the press of a stranger, to hear warm, chiming laughter and press her mouth to a smooth, soft throat. Sometimes it was nice to take her pleasure, to give pleasure, and not have to worry about moon tea or unsightly bruises afterwards.

But a married woman would not visit camp followers.

_Fucking Robb._

There was an itch under her skin and a heat pooling in her gut that no amount of scratching would ease. It was a fight she needed, since fucking was out of the question.

And where better to find a fight than a fledgling war?

They rode south toward Riverrun. Robb had plotted it well – the Whispering Wood was where they’d spring their attack, and the anticipation was enough to get her blood up.

Theon stuck to Robb's side along with Patrek, Dacey, Smalljon, Wendel, Robin, Daryn, the Karstark brothers, Owen, and the new Frey squire, Olyvvar. She traded glances with them, glares really, with the implicit understanding that no one would get to Robb, not unless everyone in the party was already dead. Some glared right back, for who was she to question their convictions? Others, like Patrek, gave a respectful nod.

Unbidden, Theon felt a rush of gratitude toward the man. She squashed it quickly, but it welled up under her skin all the same, pulsing like a bruise. For all that he was a Mallister, son of the man who crushed the Greyjoy Rebellion quite handily, he seemed decent enough.

_He likes to whore and drink,_ she recalled from their long days marching, and a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. _We could be friends – I might be able to teach him a thing or two about both._

There was a shifting from her right and Theon blinked, jerking herself from her musing with a blink and a scowl. It wouldn’t do to be distracted for this. She fixed her attention on her lordling instead.

Robb signaled for his soldiers already dressed in Tully colors to march to the Golden Tooth under the Blackfish's flag. The rest of the party followed Robb to the Whispering Wood, preparing to cut off the Lannister forces at the knees when they retreat through the forested area. Theon notched an arrow, bow held in the prepared but relaxed position near her lap. The other archers copied her, ready but not over-tensing so as to be easily spooked. Wendel Manderly shared a quick, sidelong glance with her before their attentions both turned as one back to Robb. They were the archers closest to him – he was theirs to look after.

Robb was an easy thing to prioritize, but Theon had known that since she was nine.

The swordsmen, their blades bigger and much noisier than quivers and arrows, were doubly careful not to make too much noise in this small, tightly-forested glade. It was most undignified. Nothing like bards would describe when singing about brave soldiers and heroes, but the awkward fumbling for silence was always the imperfect human part that was always left out of stories. Leather creaked and metal scraped free of sheath and horses huffed and shifted, and none of it was silent, exactly, but it would have to do.

Theon smirked to herself and let her gaze roam, picking details from shadows in the clearing below. Grey Wind was little more than a flicker as he slunk from shadow to shadow, though for a half-second she could make out the moonlight gleaming off the wolf’s yellow eyes. When the creature disappeared between the tightly-woven trees, Theon found her mind wandering again.

It was true, though the inaccuracy in some of the songs annoyed her, as well-meant as the mistakes were. Imperfect tales never made it into songs, never the bad bits. It was never the pre-battle jitters that made it into the songs because there were better things to pass on than dry-mouthed anxiety and a stomach that would not stop twisting itself into knots. She shifted minutely in her saddle, pressing the inside of her wrist to her belly. She could barely feel it through the armour, but she hoped it would settle her stomach all the same.

Lady Mormont, Lord Karstark, Lord Mallister, Lord Frey, and Lord Umber gave final whispered commands to their sub-parties to disperse or get to specific formations. Theon simply got closer to Robb, the rest of his newly formed honor guard following her actions and cloistering together in a false tortoise formation. Theon tipped her chin and Wendel nodded, his lips a thin line. Patrek just smirked, a faint, lopsided thing that nearly hide the unease in his eyes. Theon figured she didn’t look much different.

Robb squeezed her hip half in gratitude and half in scolding. There was a tension in him that she could not ease – and did not want to – but the sharpness of his gaze made her narrow her eyes.

The thing with Robb was, she had long since known, that he couldn’t keep his emotions off his face. He was terrible at cards for exactly that reason – but now, all she got from the furrow in his brow and the set of his jaw was worry.

Worry for her, or for the battle ahead?

It didn’t matter.

She wouldn’t stand for it.

Theon grinned and softly nudged his knee with hers without jostling the horses. She rolled her eyes a little to, because it was familiar. Following the lead of the others in whispering, she couldn't help but jape, "Don't worry. In this darkness, the Kingslayer's shiny golden armor makes an easy target.”

Robb and his guards snorted even as Torrhen Karstark glared at her forbiddingly. But she caught the corner of Robb’s mouth twitching in the beginnings of a smile and Theon smirked to herself, well-pleased. That, after all, had been the point of the matter.

Owen even nodded along and added in a hoarse whisper, "Aye, that he be, true, but we'll need him alive. Hopefully his men will take after their lord."

"An odd occasion where shitting gold isn't favorable," Theon snickered.

They sobered up quickly, though. It wouldn't do to get killed so early on in a perfectly planned battle due to their own arrogance. Knights of summer, Theon recalled Lady Catelyn saying more than once, those raised and blooded in the softest months, who wouldn’t know a real war if they stumbled into it.

That wouldn’t be them, she decided. 

She was startled again from her musings when she felt a hand on her knee again, warm and heavy even through her layers. Robb caught her eye and offered a weak smile, hand lingering on her thigh for a moment before he withdrew. 

Gratitude, she realized.

Thanks for breaking the tension.

She smirked back.

My pleasure.

Suddenly, Maege Mormont's horn sounded from deeper in the forest. 

Theon took a deep, steadying breath and fixed her eyes on the clearing below.

It was time.


	6. Chapter Five - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two battles won and everyone's feeling a bit on-edge.
> 
> Everyone has a different coping mechanism - Theon's always been fond of casual sex and drinking until she can't see right.
> 
> Robb -- well. 
> 
> Robb surprises her.

Dry-mouthed and shaking, Theon made her way through camp in the opposite of a daze. Every detail stood out in brilliant technicolour: the glint of moonlight on metal, the flicker of torchlight, the shadows moving at the corners of her eye.

The Greatjon’s broad, bawdy laugh cut the air and made her flinch. She’d left Robb alone with the man, but still his laugh still followed her. They couldn’t go two steps without someone solidifying out of the pre-dawn gloom and wanting to talk. And Robb stopped, as tired as he was, praise and thanks on the tip of his tongue.

She couldn’t keep dawdling. She’d go out of her mind if she were made to sit still. There was blood on her face and sweat slicking her from head to heel. It made her skin crawl and her fingers twitch.

The battles were won, but she was strung out and tense as a drawn bow. She willed herself to relax, smoothed her trembling hands over her bound hair and licked her lips again.

Then she put her head down and walked faster, her stride long and hard, heavy from the armour she still wore. She’d left Smiler with Olyvar and she wished she hadn’t. Rubbing him down would have given her something to do with her hands.

Instead she kept to the fringes, the shadows, skirted men and camp-followers alike, and made it back to Robb’s tent.

Their tent.

Her skin itched and her fingers twitched and she fumbled with the buckles and clasps with an increasing desperation. Her bracers and spaulders hit the ground with a muffled thump, her gorget close to follow. Theon took in a quick, shallow breath as the thick band of leather fell away from her throat. Her armour may have been lighter, to account for speed and precision, but it weighed on her all the same.

Next came her greaves, her boots, and breastplate. Theon struggled out of her heavy padded tunic and the long shirt of chainmail beneath. All she could smell was blood and iron and steel.

Suddenly much lighter, Theon rolled her shoulders and grimaced at the sweat cooling on her skin. She surveyed the mess she’d created and set to righting it, sighing through her teeth as she bent and tucked and tidied, her muscles aching warmly all the while.

When her armour was taken care of – unclean but set to rights – she peeled out of her tunic and trousers and set to loosening her hair from its scalp-yanking braid. With each layer she shed, Theon felt a little better, until she stood, barefoot in her smallclothes in the middle of the tent, her hair pulled back loosely and her arms at her sides.

She inhaled deeply, trying to loosen the knot of tension in her chest, and grimaced. She could smell herself, the sweat and the dirt and the blood. Her stomach turned over. She shuddered again, and her skin began to itch again.

“Disgusting,” she muttered.

She fumbled toward the jug set aside and poured a generous amount of cold water into a basin, plucking up a rag with stiffening fingers. She scrubbed herself down with hard lye soap and cold water as much as she could, rinsing sweat and grime from her body in quick, brisk motions and scrubbing her face until she thought the skin might break. She’d kill for a hot bath, or the springs in the Godswood back in Winterfell, but this was good enough.

The cold water was refreshing, at least, and Theon watched with amused resignation as her damp skin dimpled into goosebumps in the cool evening air, her smallclothes going transparent in spots where the water had dripped. At least the chill was enough of an excuse to explain her shaking hands.

The inside of her mouth was dry as cotton and every rustle and far-off shout made her tense. Her fingers ached for a bow sting, an arrow, and her heart pounded in her temples, too fast and too loud.

Enough, she told herself, but knew that it was useless. She felt flushed and full, brimming with energy and nerves – a post-battle rush swept through her like a tidal wave.

_Fighting always get the blood up,_ Ros had told her once, with a crooked smile and a dirty laugh. _After a tourney it’s easy to fill your purse, because every man who enters is desperate for something after a round or two in the ring or a tilt at the lists._

Theon could believe it.

“-with the Kingslayer, we should – oh.”

Theon turned toward the interruption on instinct, fluid and tense all at once. Her shoulders tightened and she barely kept her arms at her sides – she had no reputation for modesty, after all, and she would not cower from Robb and his Frey squire in her own tent.

Her eyes narrowed, and her smile was quick and cold. Olyvar wasn’t looking at her, but he was red from the base of his throat to his hairline. Robb stared at her for a long moment, wide-eyed before his gaze dropped to his boots. A muscle ticked in his jaw and the tips of his ears flushed.

“My apologies,” Theon said, and couldn’t keep from smirking a little. She reached for a robe and shrugged into it, belting it closed with faintly steady hands. One would think she’d been brandishing live steel, the way they relaxed once she had sheathed herself in loose cotton and old lace. “I thought I had the place to myself a while longer.”

“No apology needed, my lady,” said Robb. He glanced at her for half a heartbeat before he focused on a spot just below her right ear. Then, all at once, his attention seemed to shift to Olyvar, and his eyes narrowed. Theon felt her eyebrow quirk, vaguely incredulous and more than a little amused. She tucked her hair back behind one ear and she could have sworn Robb’s gaze followed the movement despite his glare.

“I should,” said Olyvar, and broke off. He glanced desperately toward the tent entrance, and quickly back to Robb. His hands fluttered, motioning uselessly. _Stay or go,_ Theon wondered. _Flee, or do your duty as a squire and see your lord’s armor cared for?_

Her attention flicked to Robb quickly. His hands fidgeted with his helm, and he was holding himself so tensely it was a wonder he hadn’t broken something. For a moment, just a second, he was tall and still, all but his traitorous hands, and she thought briefly of the stone kings beneath Winterfell. Half a glance and Theon could see he needed an outlet or a moment to himself. There was something like anxiousness and exhaustion warring in his eyes.

“You can go, Olyvar,” said Theon. It was not something she thought about, but as soon as the words left her lips she knew it was the right thing to do. Robb needed to deal with this on his own, not to have to keep up appearances with a Frey for company. She forced herself to look at the squire, to flash an insincere smile. “I can take it from here.”

“But,” said Olyvar. His fingers twitched minutely toward the nearest buckle or clasp. “His armour—”

“I think I can undress my husband, my lord,” said Theon. She tipped her chin toward the entrance. “As I said, you can go.”

He went.

Theon laughed under her breath and turned. Her hands still shook and her pulse still pounded, but this was something like familiarity. “I’m not sorry – you look like you needed a reprieve. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” said Robb, hoarse. His gauntlets fell to the floor and he just watched her for a long moment. There was blood smeared over his shoulder, where a man had clutched at his lord before he died. Robb’s hands were pale and lax. The stain was brown and flaking.

The air was still and warm. The moment stretched. Far away, there were sounds of laughter and shouting – the merry sort. With two battles won in as many days, it was little wonder the men were so pleased and bent on celebrating.

But tension crackled down Theon’s spine and she drew herself up, shoulders back. Her mouth was dry, and the energy she’d thought she’d burned off washing up broke over her like a swell. She shuddered.

“Robb,” she said. She could not read his face in that moment. Her stomach flipped and her toes curled against the rug. His gaze pinned her to the floor and made her hyper-aware of every deep breath she took. It made her ribs ache.

Robb’s eyes were very dark, and he was much closer than he had been a moment ago. Had she moved or had he? Had they met in the middle?

It didn’t matter.

“Theon,” he said, low and raw.

His helm hit the ground with a dull clatter and her hands tangled in his sweat-damp hair. His arms came around her waist like iron bands and she crushed herself against his chest with a ragged sound.

For a moment, there was nothing in her head but bees buzzing and the smell of wet wood smoldering. Pyke had burned, and she had watched from the deck of a ship as it swept her away. She had been small and alone and cold.

She spent the next decade cold and alone in a foreign place.

It was easy, then, to know what to do.

She wound her arms around Robb’s neck and hugged him, grimacing at the cold press of metal against her skin. He smelled of sweat and blood and steel.

He smelled like war.

_You’ve both killed men tonight._

“It’ll be better when you’re clean,” said Theon. She pushed herself away and fought out of the circle of his arms, only to wet a cloth and return. She wiped the sweat and the grime from his face and neck, careful. Her hands shook, but she was getting used to that. “Alright? You’ll feel better once you’ve washed up a little. Let me—”

He took the dampened rag from her numb fingers and she started to unbuckle the claps that held his armour in place. He leaned into her and his eyes were bleak and downcast, the eyes of a drowning man. But his hands were certain and just as desperate as hers – they fumbled together to rid him of layers of steel and iron, panting and shivering all the while.

_Does he feel the blood on his hands, still?_

Theon set her jaw and yanked his tunic up over his head when there was nothing left but that. His torso was molted with bruises, damp with sweat, and sporting a surprising amount of dark hair. She could not help but notice.

But there were no scrapes, no blood. Robb was, for all intents and purposes, fine.

He was alive.

Theon let out a harsh breath that sounded a bit like a laugh. Relief swamped her. Her lips quirked upwards helplessly. But Robb was distant, his eyes dark. He frowned and a furrow appeared in his brow. The Whispering Wood called to him, Theon figured, and the Battle of the Camps, fought in the shadow of Riverrun’s wall. Theon set her jaw. There were men dead by his orders, here and under Roose Bolton, and that would weigh on him worse than anything.

But not tonight.

Tonight they were alive and unhurt and the shadows had no claim on Robb at all.

“I told you the Kingslayer would make an easy target,” she said. She giggled then, the sound of it nearly caught behind her teeth. It wasn’t a good joke – one of her worst by far – but at the moment it was the funniest japes she’d ever made. A sharp little laugh bubbled up and spilled from her mouth and did not stop, even as she gasped for breath.

She didn’t know if it was her words or her laughter that set Robb off, but he sniggered hoarsely, some light flickering back into his gaze. She swiped the wet rag from his fingers and rubbed is briskly over his hands and the front of his chest, if only to cut a path through the grime, snickering all the while like a woman possessed. She watched as her laughter seemed to spread, sink its claws in good and tight and refuse to let go. Robb succumbed, tears in his eyes and a smile carved into his face.

Theon’s hands shook with laughter – or pain, or fear, or even sadness, or _only the Drowned God knew!_ – and could barely swipe the wet rag over his arms. Holding his hand briefly, she squeezed him and felt his palms and it felt even funnier that his callouses didn’t feel any different. It wasn’t funny. It truly wasn’t.

She couldn’t stop laughing. Tears sprung up in her eyes.

Laughing and crying, the world was a blurry mess. She clutched at Robb to stay upright, dimly registering the way he did the same. His fingers would leave bruises on bruises, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Bruises just meant she was alive, after all.

“Robb,” she gasped, his name spilling out between giggles. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate. She stared up at him, and he stared down, caught in a loop of laughter and tears. “Robb.”

“Theon,” he said, and bent. She surged up.

There was laughter and tears and kissing, then, wild and too hard, too fast. Did they meet in the middle? They must have.

Theon was dizzy with it, even as she knotted her hands in his hair.

Her mouth on his or his mouth on hers, it didn’t matter.

Their teeth clacked and their noses bumped. Theon tasted blood and did not know if Robb had split her lip or if the taste was only another swell of panic made physical. But it was easier to kiss than cry – so she kissed and kissed and kissed. Her heart pounded and her breath came in hurried sips, halfway towards hyperventilating.

Eventually Robb broke away, giggling high and breathless, but his fingers bit into her waist and her teeth scored his jaw. When she pulled at him, he came, he bent, he drew her in. Chest to chest, mouth to mouth, this was a familiar dance done to a frantic beat. His stubble scratched her face. His chest hair tickled her skin. He surrounded her.

It was a blur of heat and hands, of teeth and tongue. He shoved the robe from her shoulders and she tangled her fingers in his laces, yanking to loosen his breeches.

He groaned then, pressing into her hands. His lips found her jaw, her neck, the slope of her shoulder. His hands, big and coarse, tangled in her loose hair and pulled. Pain sung across her scalp and jolted hot down her spine. Theon moaned, the sound of it loud in the quiet of the tent and reached for him, but her fingers were clumsy and numb and the knots would not unravel.

“Usually I’m better at this,” she gasped. Robb laughed again, high and sharp and breaking, the sound of it nearly muffled against her collar.

“Hush, hush,” said Theon, and almost did not recognize her own voice for the rasp in it. “It’ll be fine, Robb, let me—”

She couldn’t get his breeches off, but she could press closer. They swayed together, off-balance, but she slotted a thigh between Robb’s. He groaned and clutched at her, hips jerking, and her answering moan sounded too loud in the scrabbling quiet of the tent.

She kicked out the back of his knee and when he fell, he dragged her down with him. Theon splayed across his chest, panting, and choked on a moan when he rocked against her. She dropped both hands to his breeches to fight with the laces and she laughed when they gave. Her smallclothes felt damp and clinging, and she couldn’t help but squirm.

“Better?” she asked, and he dragged her into another kiss with firm, calloused hands. He licked into her mouth as if he belonged there.

She shoved a hand artlessly into his trousers, past his smallclothes. But before she could grasp him properly, Grey Wind’s howl cut the air.

Theon flinched back, her eyes snapping open and darting about, her body curling protectively over Robb. Coiled tight and tense, she caught herself looking for a weapon and a flash of Lannister red before the reality of the situation washed over her. Grey Wind pushed into the tent, growling softly.

Robb stood up, taking her with him. Fingers fumbling with his laces, he headed for his wolf as they separated. His hair was wild and his face flushed, but his hands were steady as he attempted to soothe the beast.

“Someone’s coming,” he said, and his voice was a low, ruined thing. He frowned, and the severity did not suit him any more than panic had.

The news was ice water dousing the embers in her belly, despite the pleasant rasp of Robb’s voice. Theon scrambled to her feet and flung herself toward one of the trunks. Even as scattered as she was, the thought of putting on soiled clothes made her skin crawl.

She yanked on the first trousers she could find in her hastily organized wardrobe and a tunic came after. She threw a clean shirt at the back of Robb’s head and ruffled around his separate, easily accessed wardrobe for clean breeches and tossed them at him too. 

They re-dressed quickly, without looking at each other. Robb’s reddened face clashed terribly with his hair. He kept opening his mouth, only to shut it quickly. He avoided her eye.

Theon rushed to put her boots on and her eyes inevitably trailed towards the rug they’d sprawled out on. Her face flushed.

_Battle,_ she thought wildly. _It always gets the blood up._

They were mostly presentable by the time Catelyn Stark drifted into their midst. Theon expected the woman to take one glance at their rumpled state and gouge out Theon’s eyes for so much as glancing impurely at her son– but the woman didn’t seem to see anything at all.

Unease settled coldly in her stomach. Feverish kisses and hysterical laughter seemed very long ago, suddenly, and Theon found herself tensing, waiting for the blow.

“Mother?”

“Robb. There’s been a raven from King’s Landing.”

Theon found herself drawing away, even as Robb gravitated towards his mother. There was a ragged strength in Catelyn, steel under crashing waves of grief.

“He was executed this morning.”

Robb made a sound like he’d been punched, and his face crumpled. Catelyn was still talking, but Theon couldn’t hear it. Her blood pounded in her ears, washing away her thoughts like the tide.

“Oh,” she said, very softly.

Before her, like a scene from a mummer’s farce, Robb curled into his mother’s arms. Catelyn was not weeping, but the tears were thick in her voice.

Theon turned her back and slipped out of the tent.

The sea roared in her ears and the air tasted of salt.

Theon started walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey - sorry this chapter's a bit late. I got swamped at school, but the good news is this shouldn't happen again! Let us know what you think, yeah?


	7. Chapter Six - Robb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kill the boy and let the King be born.

He couldn’t be dead.

This was not how it was supposed to go. Robb was supposed to save his father and his sisters and then give Father the mantle of Lord back. This was meant to be temporary. Father was supposed to _come back home._

Robb let out a hard breath and felt the tell-tale burn of tears in his eyes. 

Even his mother's embrace didn't bring enough comfort. It wasn't enough to cushion the _loss_ he felt like a phantom limb. How could Father be gone? He was always there, that solid, righteous presence that was his father had encompassed all of Winterfell and now... now he was gone.

It was silly, in a way, to think that Father would always be there. It was such a ridiculous impossibility that it could only belong in a child's fantasy. Only Rickon was young enough to still believe in that sort thing. 

And yet... _And yet..._

Robb let out a keen that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man. He heard his mother’s muffled sobs and felt Grey Wind’s muzzle near his calf. His mother’s tears wetted his shirt and her arms clutched at him as though he were her lifeline. Or was that him? Was it he who was clutching her so tight as though she would disappear? It didn’t matter, mother and son melded together in grief.

He didn’t know how long they stood stuck like that. Minutes? Hours? Weeks even? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He couldn’t deny it. His Father was, was, was—

He was dead.

His mother came out of his embrace with a shudder. She immediately took to a water basin and dabbed her face until her blotchy cheeks and red eyes and runny nose were, if not fixed, then at least not so obvious. Robb couldn’t find the energy to do the same.

His Mother took a breath, “The Bannermen need to be informed. I… It may be for the best if we tell them together.”

Gods, how could he face them?

Robb’s hands found his mussed hair and clenched in it for lack of something solid to throw. “Of… Of course, Mother. Just… If I may have a moment?”

His Lady Mother left with a backward glance. She did not attempt to smile.

Theon had abandoned him.

He was alone but for Grey Wind.

No one to see him, no one to judge, no one to pity him.

His father was dead.

Robb gritted his teeth. His hands left his hair and he grabbed the nearest solid object.

Joffrey Baratheon killed his father.

He hurled the object with a snarl. It splintered against the corner of his desk. But Robb couldn’t stop. He cursed and swore, and around him possessions broke. But the rage in his chest would not be abated – it licked at him and consumed until everything else burned away. 

The Lannisters had Sansa and Arya.

His sword halved his furs and what passed for his bed. The steel dulled as he lunged at his own armoire in erratic tempo. Splinters hit his cheek and remained on his beard. He didn’t care. The hole widened, the wood squealed as it broke. 

King’s Landing would burn.

_No._

It would be a frozen, barren tundra with no sanctuary. No reprieve.

He’d make sure of it.

They wouldn’t dare touch any more of his family.

Robb growled and spun, hurling his sword away to punch the second wardrobe. White-hot pain scraped across his knuckles, shot up his arm, and settled in his shoulder. Robb grinned savagely and welcomed it. His mouth tasted like copper.

He kept on hitting, feeling the closeness of his own hands destroying something. Liking the sensation of a direct kill. His knuckles bled.

Something fell. He kicked it away and grabbed for his sword. He swung it gracelessly and slammed the dulled steel into his desk. The blow was strong, even as he felt his breath coming sharp and fast, fanning the flames.

He was going to take everything from that piece of filth. _Everything._

Robb panted and only noticed his lingering tears when his knees hit the dirt and he tasted the salt on his lips. Grey Wind whined and some distant part of Robb’s mind echoed the sound. There wasn’t any proper prey here. No one deserving of his wrath. That inbred bastard was safe in King’s Landing, for now.

“Robb?”

Robb stilled, shame welling in him. He thanked the Old Gods and the new it was only his mother and not one of his bannermen.

To her credit, Catelyn Stark didn’t bat an eye at the wreckage, as though she didn’t see his lapse. His _tantrum_. Robb ground his teeth and could not feel shame just yet, but he knew that he should. A Lord didn’t… no.

_A Lord Paramount didn’t—_

Robb flinched away from the thought and bit his tongue so hard he bled.

Mother brought with her a new basin filled with water and a linen cloth.

She knelt beside him and began washing away all evidence of his tears and rage, plucking the splinters from his beard until they were gone. Robb’s now limp fingers dropped his ruined sword, all fury gone. He was tired, suddenly, exhausted as he never had before. The exhaustion sunk claws into him, and it was as though everything paled in comparison. There was no rage, no grief, no guilt or shame. There was only a bone-deep tiredness that smothered all else.

For a long moment, Robb’s mind was quiet.

“We need to get you a new sword,” his mother said, fighting to keep her voice even. Tears threatened, still. “If you are to kill the Lannisters, it can’t be with a sword so dull it’s better as a club.”

“We need to get to King’s Landing first,” Robb said, flatly. But there was steel in him still, cutting through the haze of exhaustion and numbness. “Although, truth be told, I’m not convinced that thing on the throne deserves the quick death of a sharp blade.”

His father would be disappointed in Robb’s viciousness, in his dishonour, but Robb could not find it in him to do the honourable thing. His rage – quiet for now – was a hungry thing, a beast of endless appetites and a thirst for Lannister blood. No, there would be no block for Joffery Lannister, no final words.

Robb ducked his head. Shame came back to him then, blistering. But his mother’s fingers curled beneath his chin and her eyes met his squarely. She met his eyes without flinching.

“Don’t lose it. Keep the anger. Use it as you would a weapon, tightly coiled until it is time to strike,” his mother said.

“Father wouldn’t want that.”

“No, but your father was always too honourable for his own good at times,” she smiled sadly. “I won’t have you suffer the same fate as him, Robb. Show them your teeth and keep that rage for the Lannisters.”

Robb breathed deep and smothered the gnashing teeth and howling fury that rose in him like something feral. It would remain banked until he had the dogs in front of him for culling. His chest ached with the force of it, as though it weighed so much he couldn’t breathe.

When his mother finished, she went to his ruined wardrobe and took out a new outfit and cast his scattered pieces of armour a sharp look. “Be sure to tell your squire that discretion is a highly valued trait,” she said as she left.

Robb knelt there with Grey Wind a silent presence at his back. For a moment, he pressed his face into the wolf’s scruff and breathed in the smell of wet fur and warm animal and old blood and mud. Grey Wind didn’t leave Robb’s side even when Olyvar Frey, very pale and holding the armor that he’d picked up from the floor and quickly polished, sidestepped the large wolf to get to his liege Lord’s side.

“My Lord?” Olyvar said, sweat dripping from his brow. Robb looked up.

He sighed and stood up, keeping his body loose enough that Olyvar could buckle up the armor with relative ease after he’d changed.

“I trust that you know better than to talk of the state of my tent, Olyvar,” Robb said flatly. It felt easier parroting his mother’s words than to think.

“What state, my Lord?” Olyvar gave a wide-eyed innocent stare that, had Robb not been the one to do the deed, he would have believed to be true.

“This tent needs a little tidying but that is minor thing I could do while you see to your duties,” Olyvar continued, completely straight-faced.

“Good, then we understand each other,” Robb said. He waited as Olyvar worked in silence, buckling straps and tucking cloth, until Robb broke it. “Did anyone hear anything?”

“No, my Lord, there was nothing to hear. Not when Lady Stark came in to your tent and there weren’t any sounds, suspicious or otherwise, when you were alone with your wife. It was very quiet. Very proper.”

Hazy as he was, Robb’s head snapped up and his eyes widened when he registered his squire’s tone. _Had he just?_ But only Theon and, very rarely, Jon ever bothered to make these little japes around him. He snorted. It was good. It was not Theon japing with him but it was good and normal and he felt the knot in his chest loosen, just a little. He breathed easier, a weight eased.

“I appreciate that,” Robb said after a while. Olyvar finished putting on his armor and stepped back, standing at attention as though the tent were as immaculate as a liege Lord’s tent would be in wartime. Robb was impressed. It seemed his squire had long since perfected the art of keeping secrets.

Robb left his tent after a fortifying breath, fingers twitching, Grey Wind and Olyvar flanking him, the former in a show of strength and the latter shadowing him. Robb, if nothing else, looked like a Lord with power.

If he was lucky, no one would ever know the rage and the heartbreak under the surface.


	8. Chapter Eight - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now and always?"  
> "Now and always."
> 
> (Or: Did you really think the Coronation wouldn't be in this thing?)

The camp was a mess of wounded men and drunk men and harried women wanting to be drunk or patched up. Theon barely saw them. She barely registered their laughter or their screams or their shouting.

_Eddard Stark was dead._

The thought pounded through her, as constant as her heartbeat. 

The Lord of Winterfell is dead. Long live the Lord of Winterfell.

Theon put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. She smelled horse and mud and blood around her. She took another, and smelled men’s sweat and spilled ale and piss.

Theon rubbed her eyes briskly, straightened her back, and kept walking with her chin up and her eyes blank and unseeing.

Robb needed time with his mother – to process, to grieve. She would stay clear until he wasn’t an open wound, pouring misery like fresh blood.

But where did that leave her? 

There were always washerwomen. Camp-followers. Hells, she could probably sway Mallister into a few nights of co-habitation, to spare his lord some privacy to grieve.

Theon walked, half-hearted plans swirling through her mind like so much fog.

Eddard Stark, the man who killed her brothers and put Pyke to the torch, was dead. The man who had her pass him Ice at every execution since she had flowered had been beheaded. The man with stony eyes and shoulders fit to hold up the world would rot in the crypts beneath Winterfell.

But he did not – had not – beat his children. His judgements for the smallfolk were fair. He indulged his youngest daughter in her wildness, he cherished his eldest girl, and he raised his bastard alongside his trueborn children despite his wife’s disapproval.

He allowed her to practice the bow and wear breeches when it suited her. He never looked at her with distain, as the other Northern Lords had. When she was punished, it was no worse than anything any of his own children would receive for the same slight.

But she still woke up from nightmares of her head on a block; she still paced the floors and tried not to remember Pyke burning and her mother’s ragged sobs as she was escorted from her father’s hall. She looked at him and could only see the man who killed her brothers, who only played at being her father when he had bent the knee of her blood-father years before.

Ned Stark was dead and Theon’s eyes were dry. 

But there as a lump in her throat thick enough to choke her.

“Greyjoy!”

Theon flinched and looked about. Her hand dropped to the dagger at her hip on instinct. She turned on her heel, but it was only Maege Mormont squinting at her from an   
arm’s length away.

She was a stout, heavy woman with iron-grey hair and eyes like steel. Theon froze, pinned to the spot under the frank assessment in her flat stare. 

“She-bear,” Theon said. She forced a smile half a second too late, strained and thin. “I didn’t hear you. My apologies.”

Lady Mormont waved off Theon’s words with a heavy, thick-fingered hand. She turned her head and spat, but her attention returned to Theon. Her gaze swept Theon from head to heel, so critically that Theon wanted to cross her arms and fold up small, as she had when she was a slip of a girl still safe on Pyke.

She relaxed her shoulders and lifted her chin instead. It was second-nature by now.

The She-Bear seemed unimpressed. “You should be with your husband,” she said flatly. “Fighting always gets the blood up, and men are such demanding creatures. And yet here you are, wandering in a daze. What’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Um,” said Theon, silver tongue turned to lead. She felt a flash of heat in her stomach – she was all too aware of what a fight did to the blood – that was curdled by chilly dread and confusion. Lord Stark was dead. “I needed a moment alone, as did R – my lord husband. There was news from the South.”

“Hmph,” said Maege. Her eyes narrowed. Theon looked away, her gaze darting to and fro. “Hmph,” said Maege again, and caught Theon by the shoulder. “Come on then.”

She dragged Theon a handful of steps until they were both tucked away in a tent hung with the Mormont colours.

“What news?” she asked, and Theon was grateful that the tent was otherwise empty.

Theon shook her head and pushed her hair back from her face. “It is not my news to tell,” she said. “Robb will—”

“I’m asking you, Greyjoy. I hate to be the last to know things, and I don’t appreciate having news sprung on me, regardless of whatever war-meeting Lord Stark has planned. Tell me.”

Theon bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The bruises that blackened her skin pulsed and ached. She didn’t look up from her boots, just shook her head a little.

Maege sighed heavily and turned away. She was back a moment later, with a wine-skin and a glass she filled to the brim and pressed into Theon’s hands.

“Drink, girl,” she said, not unkindly. “Put some colour back in your face and tell me what’s going on.”

Theon drained the glass without pausing for breath. The wine was dry and bitter, nothing like the Dornish reds or winter sweetwines she favored, but it warmed her from the belly-out. She stuck out the empty glass, licking the red from her lips. Maege snorted, but indulged her all the same.

Theon drank that too, before she wiped her mouth, met Maege’s eyes squarely, and said, “Ned Stark is dead. Royal decree. Lady St—Lady Catelyn says the raven came earlier, and that the deed was done this morning.”

Maege straightened up all at once, as if Theon had reached out and slapped her. “The bastards,” she said, very softly. There was a cold fury in it, a steel in her spine. Theon tensed, but Maege only lifted the wineskin and took a long drink.

“We’ll make them pay,” she said, and there was enough contained rage in it to freeze a man to the quick. Theon shivered. “The North would have no less.”

“The North remembers,” Theon echoed. Maester Luwin had said it often enough, talking of long-dead Northern kings and the slights they’d faced. The words felt wrong in her mouth, hollow.

“Aye, that it does.” But Maege was already a hundred league away. She half-turned, and the firelight carved ghoulish shadows across her face.

But then Maege fixed her with a sharp look and waved a hand. “Go. There’s a war-meeting to prepare for.”

Theon set down her glass after another dry mouthful and stumbled out. The wine warmed her but the dread made her sick, and the nausea settled into her bones by the time she made her way back to Robb’s tent.

She wasn’t surprised to find most of it destroyed, but the annoyance flared in her all the same as she stooped and scrambled to retrieve her scattered armour. Donning it was difficult, clumsy work, but she managed – breathing deep and slow to keep her hands steady as she heard the Lords drifting past, making their way toward the war-tent.

_You’re late,_ she told herself, and tightened another buckle. _It doesn’t matter. You know what’s going to be said._

She made sure she was presentable before she slunk into the war tent.

The hair on the back of her neck rose to attention and Theon pressed her lips together as she slipped past battle-weary Lords and Ladies to the free seat by Robb’s left hand. He didn’t falter in his speech, but his gaze flicked to her as she settled. But just as quick, he dismissed her and glanced back toward the Greatjon.

His voice was as familiar to her as the sea once had been, and Theon let it was over her as she took in the scene.

Robb looked terrible.

Perhaps not to an outsider – no, Theon assumed that to someone who didn’t know him, Robb looked every inch the distant Lord, some immovable, unshakable mountain capped in ice and snow.

But Theon had known Robb since he was a fat little boy with pudding on his face after every meal. When she looked at him all she could see were his red-rimmed eyes and restless hands, and the stiff, careful way he bent his fingers. She couldn’t unsee his weary, unyielding spine or his set shoulders or the way a muscle kept jumping in his jaw when he clenched it.

Theon licked her lips and forced herself to look away. Rickard Karstark, half-way down the table, had the quiet, devastated stare of a gutted man, and a glance around didn’t reveal his boys anywhere in the tent, not even lurking at the fringes as was their due.

_Oh,_ thought Theon, and rubbed a hand over her mouth.

Torrhen and Eddard had not made it.

Theon could have cursed. She was an archer – her eyes were supposed to be sharp. And yet she hadn’t noticed that they were missing until just now. They'd been among the honor guard along with her. It’d been too much, between winning the Battle of the Whispering Woods and the riding at breakneck speed to reach Riverrun before they lost the element of surprise to cut off the Lannisters. No one had the time to check on anyone but the person next to them. Theon herself had kept a firm eye on Robb, keeping him safe, and on Wendel Manderly, her fellow archer who also held the rear and long distance fighting. That was it.

_Poor bastard,_ she thought, and glanced again to Rickard Karstark. If she had a glass, she’d raise it to him. Or just hand it over. If anyone in this tent deserved a drink, it was him and Robb.

_Gods above and below, another Eddard taken by the Lannisters. Not even a month deep, and this war already has a steep price._

But there was light, perhaps. There had been no word, as far as Theon knew, from Lord Bolton’s forces. And Harrion Karstark had fought under Lord Bolton. 

Perhaps there’s still hope for him yet, thought Theon, though even that seemed like a hollow platitude. Rickard may still have his heir.

All around her there was murmurings – Renly or Stannis – and it took a moment for Theon to notice.

But in the next instant the Greatjon was on his feet, bellowing, and Theon flinched back into the present.

"MY LORDS! Here is what I say to these two kings!” He spat, to scattered laughter and uneasy approval. Theon quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward, just a little.

“Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, I’ve had a bellyful of them. Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married to, and the dragons are all dead! There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m’lords. The King in the North!"

Robb rose slowly. His eyes flickered from the kneeling Greatjon to the others gathered close, and the heavy silence was broken as another Lord clambered to his feet, speaking of peace and forgoing red castles. “The King in the North,” he swore, and bent the knee, naked steel gleaming in the torchlight.

_Oh no._

Theon looked around, dread building thick in her chest. She wet her lips and swallowed it down, because this was no time for panic, for second-guessing or cold feet. This was a certain sort of madness, battle-hardened and fire-forged, but it rang true in a way that settled her stomach and lit a fire under her skin.

She pushed herself to her feet, all too aware of the eyes on her. But she kept her gaze on Robb’s face, met his eyes without modesty or flinching, as she always had. 

As she always would.

“Do I have a place by your side, now and always?”

“Now and always.”

He did not hesitate. His gaze held hers, intent and impossibly blue.

She bent the knee and laid her sword at his feet. Her mouth was very dry, and she bowed her head.

“My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day until my last day.”

“The King in the North,” cried the Greatjon. Others echoed him, lending one voice until the shout rang across camp.

The chant rose up like something holy – a proclamation from the Old Gods themselves from their whispering trees.

The King in the North. The King in the North. The King in the North.

Theon let the sound of it wash over her, a wildfire under her skin with nowhere to go. She barely noticed the hand on her shoulder, the fingers curled around her own. 

Robb drew her to her feet, and around them Northmen knelt in a sea of steel and grim, determined faces.

Theon looked to Robb and did not smile. Her sword still at his feet, his fingers curled tight around hers, nothing felt real, not truly. She blinked, and even that felt distant and dream-like.

But dreams never weighed so heavy on her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took forever. Tell me what you think - this is the summer for personal and professional growth after all.


	9. Chapter Nine - Theon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's better than plotting a war and eating breakfast in bed?
> 
> Sexual tension, grief, and pining, that's what.

It was the chill that woke Theon, despite how far south they were.

She shivered herself awake, bare toes nipped by the pre-dawn air. Theon tucked her feet up under the blanket, her legs tangling with another pair.

It was warm and careless, and Theon mumbled a little, content. Sleepily, she shimmied closer, hooking one knee around a hard-muscled thigh. Far off, there were the usual morning sounds – horses and men, people bustling and the clank of armour.

The clank of armour. But Winterfell...

Theon’s eyes snapped open.

Robb slept on, oblivious, his face three inches from her own.

Theon let out a strangled noise and froze.

Then, very carefully, very slowly, she began to untangle their legs.

She was grateful, then, of their loose linen night-shirts. The last thing she needed was to be making this awkward with the touch of skin on skin.

Well. _More_ skin on skin, she thought dryly, and could not keep last night’s kisses from her mind. Heat crawled up her throat, and Theon jerked back quickly, pulling her knees to her chest and far, far from Robb.

_That was nothing. Fighting gets the blood up. It was nothing – and we won’t speak of it again._

Last night’s events washed over her in full then – the scalding heat of Robb’s mouth and the clumsy way he grabbed at her, the wash of dread and cold at the news of Lord Stark’s death, Lady Mormont’s gruff curiosity and the absolute madness that had been the coronation.

_What did I do that for?_ She wondered, thinking back on her own bent knee and the words that sounded far too much like wedding vows for her own tastes. _What sort of moon madness did I fall prey to last night?_

Still – it could have been worse. She was not the one who lost a father last night.

Unbidden, Theon’s eyes found Robb’s slack face once more. There were pillow creases on his cheek and reddish stubble on his jaw, and his eyes had a heavy, sunken cast.  
Grief marked him even in sleep.

No, she hadn’t lost a father last night – but the entire camp had felt the loss, of that she was sure. After all, Lord Stark was many things to many people.

He was a just Lord Paramount whose honor was the standard to which all under him strove to reach. He was a man that all of these bannermen, with their petty squabbles and rivalries, would mourn and rally behind his ghost without a second thought.

They would hear many laments and many songs about him. Theon frowned and fidgeted with the tail of her braid.

He was a loving husband and a good, attentive father to all his children, including Jon the bastard and Arya the mannish. Such patience and indulgence and unconditional love was rare in anyone, especially a liege lord with expectations and a legacy to secure. 

Theon could at least admit, in the depths of her blackened heart, that she envied the Stark children for that. 

Even as she felt like the lowest of traitors for wanting his love and to have him call her daughter. 

Because hadn’t he been the one who burned Pyke and stolen her from behind Nuncle Dagmer’s legs to have her live as a hostage? He let her wear breeches, he educated her alongside his own children, but was that enough to make up for the sword that hung above her head every moment of every day under his roof?

She never slept a full night after the morning held an execution. Lord Stark may have meant her holding Ice to be an honor – a show of trust, even, for her to hold a blade while his back was turned – but she could only see the arc of it as it fell. Not even Ros’ sweet charms would be enough to soothe her, after an execution.

Lord Stark was many things to many people. He was Lord and father, husband and executioner, jailer and traitor and usurper and all-but-brother to the late King.

He had been many things to her, too. Captor and authority and lord – with a player acting the father somewhere further down the line. Had she called him anything other than ‘Lord Stark’ in all her time under his roof?

Not as far as she could recall. 

Robb burrowed his head further into his pillow like a blind pup seeking warmth. He continued burrowing until, with mournful sigh, he lifted his upper body in one forceful shove to get the waking over with.

He stared at the tent’s wall for a spell, his gaze far away as though he were in the throes of some stupor – religious or ale-induced. 

“Tell me yesterday was a nightmare,” Robb whispered.

Theon startled, and a queer chill ran down her spine. _What?_

“Tell me that little piss-ant boy-king didn’t kill my father.”

Robb’s fist clenched on the furs, the knuckles pale. 

“Tell me I’m not a king.”

Theon looked away to keep from seeing Robb’s back bow and shake. It turned her stomach to see him quail like this.

Not Robb. Not him. Not like this.

“Robb… I want to, but—”

“But you won’t lie to me?” Robb barked out a laugh. Grey Wind jumped onto the bed from his place by the fire and curled around his master, whining low in comfort. “What’s one more lie, Theon? You’re so good at it.”

Theon set her jaw and looked away.

It wasn’t enough, Theon knew simply from the posture and the defeat writ in Robb’s face. His dog and his lashing out – none of it was enough. Theon shook her head and pressed on, ignoring the lash. She’d done more for less important men.

“We will avenge him—”

“What good will that do? He’s dead. I can’t get Sansa or Arya back if that bastard touches them and does the same or worse!”

His voice was thick and his shoulders hitched on every breath.

Tears. 

Theon’s breath stuttered. Robb was crying. He hadn’t done that in front of her since he was a child.

Back then, when Robb got a skinned knee and bawled over it, Theon, as a proper Ironborn, had told him that men didn’t cry that easy and helped him up. It had been what Asha would have done. She hadn’t gone it quite right – Asha had never been that playful in her chiding, and she’d never helped Theon to her feet after a spill. 

That wasn’t going to do now. There were plenty of people who would tell Robb that a man didn’t cry like a maid over things he couldn’t control. The people who would only see Robb the King, rather than Robb the boy. He didn’t need another.

Robb didn’t even let go of the bedding to take comfort in his direwolf.

Self-sacrifice didn’t suit him.

Theon shuffled closer to him and, once she was sure she had his attention, tentatively opened her arms.

“Theon?” He rubbed the back of his hand over his face, hurried and furtive.

“Come here, Robb.”

“But, I shouldn’t—”

“Robb, I am giving you an unlimited offer to hug me to your heart’s content,” Theon said. “No man, aside from Nuncle Dagmer, has ever had such permission. Now come here.”

“I appreciate the gesture but Theon—”

“The permission is unlimited and you may do it whenever you wish after this, no questions asked. Just come here, will you,” Theon said through her teeth. This was so bloody uncomfortable. How did normal women do this?

Robb stared at her for a moment then the next thing she knew she had a broad shouldered Northman clinging to her, crushing her ribs and trapping her arms under his. He hauls her half-way into his lap with the force of his grip, but Theon only let herself go slack.

Theon relaxed a little and embraced him as much as he allowed. Robb kept his grip tight to the point that her shift fell off one shoulder, exposing her skin to the cold morning air but for Robb’s face covering it. His beard scratched at her, but Theon kept her mouth shut.

If she slumped a little into his embrace and rested her head against him, no one needed to know. He smelled of sleep and linen and faintly of night-sweat. It wasn’t terrible.

He trembled against her, his tears wetting her shoulder. Theon’s arms tightened and moved in what she hoped was a soothing rub. One night or moment of crying and raging was not enough, not when the wound was so deep. Some part of her wanted to tell him to rage, to get back into that state that made him uncharacteristically destroy everything in his path, to hold it and wait to use it against the Lannisters when the time was right. 

But no. Now was not the time. 

Later, perhaps.

The tent’s entrance parted and both Robb and Theon tensed when Olyvar Frey entered with a tray filled with breakfast fit for a King. And Queen, Theon supposed, as if the thought didn't make her stomach lurch.

“Your Grace, it—”

“Get out, Olyvar.” The words were a lash. Theon glared and did not take them back.

No, this was Robb’s sanctuary, she refused to let that greedy Frey bird report anything to his own lord about Robb’s state. Already she could feel Robb’s tension spiking and his arms crushed her to him as though to ward off the outside world. She didn’t stop her rubbing of his back, though became more subtle, and moved her arms so as to cover Robb’s tear streaked face. She shuffled closer to him until she found herself completely in his lap, the gesture more protective than she could articulate. Robb was covered, hidden, and his tears wouldn’t see the light of day outside the tent. No one would see his shame.

“But, my Queen, the food—”

“Leave it and go. We’ve got important things to discuss.” Lady Stark may have a glare set to melt the wall, but Theon would bet that hers could rival Catelyn’s in that moment. Frey, to his credit, only blanched. He was poised enough to do as she said before he scampered away from the tent post-haste. 

“Mind guarding the door, Grey Wind?” Theon said once they were alone again.

“No, don’t, I should go out there and—”

“And nothing, Robb. Does it look like you’re in any state to make any decisions? Trust me, you aren’t, you’re a mess. So you are going to stay here, eat something, maybe make a concrete plan of action so you don’t fumble around and secretly panic and make the wrong decisions around your bannermen. Besides, you’ll feel much better with a bit of space,” Theon added.

Robb snorted with a shuddering laugh, “Somehow, I don’t think that’s how grief works.”

“It isn’t, but I’m not hearing a better suggestion,” Theon said. “At least stay here and eat breakfast before you go join the vultures outside.”

“Those vultures are my bannermen,” Robb reminded while nosing Theon’s shoulder. She shivered at the scrape of his beard and the damp wash of his breath. Her fingers tightened, scraping against his shoulders.

“And how many of them came to your call without question?” Theon asked.

Robb sighed. “Theon.”

“Fine, fine, but you still have to admit that you can’t go out there without at least looking like a proper King,” Theon said.

“Fine,” Robb said and reached for the tray, bringing it closer. Theon smirked in triumph.

They ate the first few bites in comfortable silence, sitting up in bed. Occasionally, Robb would whistle for Grey Wind and toss him a bit of meat.

Theon had to laugh.

“You’re spoiling him, you know,” she said.

“Hypocrite,” Robb chided lightly. Theon nodded in concession without a drop of shame, she was guilty of giving the overgrown mutt a bit of her meals.

It was odd just how… normal all of this was. Save for holding onto each other like limpets and the fact that they were eating in their nightclothes sitting up in bed, this was just like any other private meals they’d once had back in Winterfell when they wanted to talk about things, important and banal, without someone bothering them. 

It still didn’t take away the oddness of cuddling in bedding furs while eating. It was something she might – if she aggressively ignored the sexual implications because no matter how well they’d aged, some things were disturbing to think about even for her – believe suited to the late Lord Stark to do with his wife, given how comfortable they were with each other. It was not something she expected to do with anyone, so queer was this feeling. 

But whenever she made the motion to leave his embrace, Robb’s muscles would tense again and cling to her. She ceased. It was odd, but if it comforted him, well… she would cuddle him while eating breakfast in bed. It wasn’t the worst feeling in the world.

“Better?”

“Some,” Robb said. “I’m more angry than sad now but…”

“Good, keep it that way. Just target it at the Lannisters,” Theon said.

Robb shook his head with a smile. Theon raised an eyebrow but his smile just got wider and he cuddled her closer. 

“You said something about plans?” Robb said after a long moment.

“Yes,” Theon said, “Any ideas for possible allies?”

“The knights of the Vale could make all the difference in this war,” Robb said instantly. “Their force is considerable and the Lannisters would be hard-pressed at resisting an attack from the North and the East. Likewise, Lady Arryn is mother’s sister, she can hardly deny her blood the aid we sorely need. Not when her honor as a Tully and an Arryn demands it.”

“That, and the Lannisters were as responsible for Lord Arryn’s death as they were for…. Well,” Theon shrugged, helpless. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Lord Arryn was around at King’s Landing, he saw too much and eventually came to the same conclusion as your Lord Father and Lord Stannis. So he was silenced. Even if some of Lady Arryn’s bannermen dig in their heels, they would have to go to war to avenge their Liege Lord.”

“Theon…. Yes, perhaps that approach might give her the needed leverage,” Robb nodded, nosing along her flesh until his mouth nearly brushed her ear.

Theon inhaled sharply, tense and still. 

“Why were you so set to defend Stannis as an ally?” Theon whispered. Why was she whispering? She cleared her throat.

“It’s not that I want him as an ally no matter what,” Robb said. “It’s just that, it’s the proper order of things. Robert Baratheon is dead so the logical course for the next in line for the throne should be the older living brother if there is no issue. That is Stannis, not Renly.”

“How droll,” Theon deadpanned. “The Lannisters and the battlefield don’t care about the proper order of things. They would have let your father take the black id they did. What matters is that we win the war and come home relatively unscathed. What does Stannis have to offer that will help us achieve that?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s the most legitimate candidate to take the throne?” Robb asked, deadpan.

“Robb, going by that, Robert Baratheon was an usurper and a kinslayer with no business sitting his humongous arse on the throne while any Targaryens still lived. Try again.”

“Theon…”

“Am I wrong? I mean it, Robb. Don’t make a decision based on how the world _should_ work. It’s going to get us all killed in this war, and I am far too beautiful to die in a ditch.” Theon smirked. “Unless you have some news about Stannis the rest of us aren’t privy to, those rumors about him with a sorceress and a pirate don’t fill me with much confidence.”

Robb opened his mouth and then closed it, letting go of Theon for a moment to run his hands over his hair again. 

“So you suggest I forget Stannis and solely focus on getting the Vale on our side?”

“No, I suggest you get both Lady Arryn and Renly Baratheon on your side,” Theon side. “Between the knights of the Vale and King Renly’s army of stormlords and all the resources from the Reach thanks to his new bride, if the rumours are true, the Lannisters won’t stand a chance. Kill them and salt the earth.” 

Theon stroked her thumbs on Robb’s stubbled cheeks. To think there used to be a time when they were round with puppy fat. 

He was turning into a man before her eyes. 

“Some would call that excessive,” Robb said. He leaned into her touch with a quiet hum.

“Excessive would be adding the Iron Fleet to the list of allies. Which we should,” Theon added, offhand.

“The Iron Fleet? Theon, that’s madness,” Robb grabbed her hands, eyes wide.

“Well, not if we play our cards right,” Theon said. She slid her hands out from under his and flexed her fingers. “And stop looking at me like that. I haven’t gone mad before your eyes.” She pushed her hair back and leaned away minutely, aching for some breathing space.

“My father holds command of the Iron Fleet,” she said. “All we would need is his support to have them on our side.”

“You say that like it would be easy,” Robb replied. He nearly sounded amused. 

Theon shrugged one shoulder. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Well, his daughter is a Queen now, as far as he knows, and we can offer certain – privileges, shall we say? For his compliance. It shouldn’t be difficult, to sweeten this deal.”

“You want to give your father a crown?”

“You have to admit, it would get his attention.”

Robb narrowed his eyes and Theon could only smirk as she say the wheels in his brain start turning, an argument bubbling to the surface.

It was going to be a long morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It liiiiiiiiiiiives.
> 
> But seriously, I realized that I have, like, another four chapters stashed away that I wrote ages ago. So this will probably get updated slightly more frequently for a little while, and then peter out again. I.D.M is AWOL, as it stands.
> 
> Tell me what you think of this -- glorious return, shall we say?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Chapters will be posted every week or so - as regularly as I can. Thanks a billion to my beta and co-author Iron_Dragon_Maiden, I couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> Originally for the tumblr prompt: "Thea joins Robb at war like Theon did but Catelyn lies to Lord Frey that Robb secretly married to Thea to prevent Lord Frey from making Robb marry a Frey and they have to go along with it until they win the war." And it spiraled wildly out of control. 
> 
> This is set in the same 'verse as [Let the Only Sound be the Overflow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5029174)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/); come say hi.


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